Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
LANI
He pulls out with a final, low grunt – already gone from me before I can catch my breath. The sound of him fastening his clothes is barely audible beneath the relentless hammer of the rain. My body aches – shaking, stretched, still clenching around the ghost of him.
I don’t turn around.
I can’t.
By the time I manage to drag in a breath, he’s already gone. Footsteps fading into wet sand. No goodbye. No name. Just absence.
My hands sink into the cold dune beneath me as I collapse forward, breath ragged, heartbeat skidding wildly out of rhythm. I can still feel him – the imprint of his body, the bruising stretch of him inside me. The sting at my neck, still hot beneath the rain.
He never saw my face.
God help me – I made sure of it.
That was the point. Anonymous. Feral. Something outside myself. Outside the careful rules and half-truths and expectations that cling to me like skin.
But now that he’s gone, the storm feels different. Colder. Emptier.
I force myself upright, legs trembling, thighs sticky and sore. My shorts are soaked through and twisted, but I drag them back into place anyway, hands clumsy and numb. I tug my hoodie down, shielding myself as best I can, and start the long walk back.
Every step feels heavier than the last.
By the time I reach the cottage, I’m shaking so badly my teeth chatter.
The key slips in the lock twice before I manage to turn it.
Warm air rushes over me as I stumble inside, and the contrast makes my head spin.
I lock the door behind me and lean against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, soaked through and shaking.
I don’t cry.
I don’t laugh.
I just sit there, lungs burning, body humming like it’s been struck by lightning.
Eventually, I manage to stand.
I should sleep.
Instead, I shower.
It helps. Sort of. Hot water sluices over my skin, washing away sand and sweat and the lingering, phantom weight of him – but not the way my nerves still feel stretched too tight. Not the strange heat pooling low in my belly. Not the ache at my neck that pulses dully beneath the spray.
I avoid touching it.
I towel off, dress in clean clothes. Dry ones. Soft ones. The nicest pyjamas I own. I clean the bite carefully, wincing as antiseptic burns into raw skin. It’s deep – but not deep enough to be a claim. I know that much.
When I finally crawl into bed with the firm intention of sleeping until morning, the storm howls on around me.
Instead of being climbed by slumber, I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my body restless and over-aware. Every sound outside feels amplified. Every gust of wind sets my pulse skittering.
When sleep finally comes, it’s shallow and strange.
I wake late the next morning to silence.
No rain. No wind. Just pale sunlight spilling across the floorboards and the distant cry of gulls. The storm is gone, as if it never even happened.
I feel…off. Not sick, exactly. Just wrong around the edges. My body feels heavy, leaden, like it’s been wrung out and put back together wrong.
It takes me a moment to remember.
Everything.
The storm. The chase. The man who left me marked and didn’t look back.
I probably over-exerted myself last night. And I didn’t have the best night’s sleep, so I’ll chalk it down to that.
I sit up slowly, testing myself. Sore, yes. But functional.
Then I remember the plants. Regardless of how I’m feeling, the plants need to go back out and I have strict instructions from my grandmother to return each one to its rightful place. Apparently they’ll know if they’re moved and they’ll rebel.
With a groan, I haul myself out of bed.
In the bathroom I get ready for the day but when I catch my reflection I freeze.
The mark on my neck is darker today. Angry-looking. A curved impression where teeth broke skin, healing slowly beneath the surface.
I touch it lightly and swallow.
Anyone could mistake it for a love bite – though that thought doesn’t comfort me the way it should – but it’s really hot to the touch.
God, I hope it’s not getting infected. That would suck.
A wave of nausea rolls through me without warning. I grip the sink, breathing hard until it passes.
Probably nothing, I tell myself.
Just exhaustion. Adrenaline. Too much all at once.
Still…unease curls low in my gut, cold and persistent.
I cover the mark with my jumper collar and turn away from the mirror.
I don’t know why I suddenly feel like something has already been set in motion – whether I’m ready for it or not.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. My skin feels…sensitive. Too aware. Like every nerve ending is turned up a notch higher than it should be.
I hug my arms around myself, frowning.
Probably just adrenaline.
Downstairs, the lounge is chaos – plant pots clustered everywhere, leaves still damp from yesterday’s rain. I did get them all inside, at least.
Now they need to go back out.
“One at a time,” I mutter, grabbing the nearest pot – Mabel, the lavender. “We can do this.”
I’m halfway through carrying her back onto the porch when a voice cuts through the quiet.
“You’re going to wreck your back doing that.”
I nearly drop her.
I turn to find my grumpy neighbour leaning against the fence, arms folded, expression as unimpressed as ever. Dry today. Fully clothed. Still infuriatingly solid and good looking.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums, unconvinced, then hops the fence with irritating ease and starts lifting the heavier pots without asking. Efficient. Silent. Almost gentle, despite the scowl permanently etched into his face.
“You look like shit.”
“Wow. Good morning to you too.”
His gaze sweeps over me – quick, assessing – and then pauses. Just for a second. His jaw tightens, like something’s irritated him that he can’t quite place.
My skin prickles.
“Storm pass alright?” he asks, voice rougher than before.
“Yeah. Loud. Messy. I guess Old Pete was right about it coming in after all.”
I huff as I struggle with the oversized pot in my hands, my grip slipping as my palms sweat.
“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, already stepping forward. “I’ll take a few.”
The words register a beat late.
“I—” I shift my grip on the pot. “I can manage.”
He studies me for another moment, jaw tightening, like he’s weighing something internal. Then he exhales sharply.
I don’t remember agreeing. But one second I’m standing there, braced for an argument, and the next he’s lifting two pots at once like they’re nothing, moving with brisk, efficient purpose. No fuss. No commentary.
I follow, feeling oddly off-balance, like the moment slid sideways when I wasn’t looking.
We work in silence.
He doesn’t look at me much. When he does, it’s brief. Careful. Like he’s avoiding something. The air between us feels tight, stretched thin.
Once the last pot is back outside, he straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“You should take it easy today,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Storms wipe people out.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, though my voice lacks conviction.
He nods once, like he doesn’t believe me but won’t argue.
Then he turns and vaults the fence with the same ease as always, disappearing back onto his side without another word.
I stand there for a moment, unsettled.
Then I go inside.
Trying not to think about how nothing feels quite the same anymore.